


a hand to seal a promise in

by giltgold



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Pining, Post-Time Skip, Sexual Tension, Sparring, or how to get together while under ur friend: the fic, the inherent homoeroticism of sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:54:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24207778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giltgold/pseuds/giltgold
Summary: Five years later, Sylvain grows into himself. He fills out into his frame, gets bigger. This is a problem for Felix. A big problem.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 15
Kudos: 213





	a hand to seal a promise in

Felix slips away from the group to grab his mare whom he left at the edge of the ruins, before they went in to rout the bandits. Sylvain spots him first when he comes back, waving him over. “You’re looking good, huh?” 

He’s smiling in the way Felix had nearly forgotten when he sifted through for memories of his classmates on cold marches - but knows instantly, that this is what he had been looking for. Looking good, like all of them hadn’t had their baby fat beaten off of them through campaign after campaign, and the reality of soldier rations. 

Like everyone around them weren’t dropping like horseflies. 

“Shut the fuck up, Sylvain,” Felix says, and goes to hug Sylvain with a ferocity that surprised even himself.

So this is the beginning of the end before Felix really knows it: 

After the reunion at Garreg Mach, everyone chips in to help with restoring the grounds however they can. Ashe is in the greenhouse more often than not, Mercedes taking over whatever the fuck Manuela did before, Annette trading tips with the mages, and the boar prince chases ghosts in the cathedral, bumping into people and snarling.

Sylvain though. This is the kicker - Sylvain helps turn out the horses and groom them, knows whose tack needs upkeep before some of the stable hands themselves know it. But Sylvain also helps with carrying lumber around for construction, and he helps with clearing out the rubble from the destruction five years ago. It’s winter, but it’s not brutal this year, and the monastery itself has always been quite warm, which means he keeps walking around in that goddess damn thin white shirt of his that turns sheer when he sweats and sticks with a definition that’s entirely newfound.

Once, Felix sees him with his shirt off and feels the inexplicable urge to duck back around the corner and head back the way he came. He only stops short because this is Sylvain. Felix has seen him shirtless a hundred times before. Hell, Felix was there when he pissed himself that time they were both kids at the Fraldarius castle. It’s _just_ Sylvain. He’s an asshole. He’s nice to his friends. He’s so smart when he puts the effort in, and he’s also the biggest idiot Felix knows.

And then, this is the beginning of the end as Felix knows it:

The thing is, Sylvain hit his growth spurt the summer Felix was twelve. Sylvain just turned fourteen - he shot up like a weed and suddenly won’t let Felix hear the end of how small he is, how precious that is. Not even the threat of “I won’t be your friend anymore, Sylvain!” can stop him, but maybe Sylvain just sees right through him because here they are, still friends. Felix hit his growth spurt the summer after. He’s never caught up.

Through the Tragedy, through the Officer’s Academy, Sylvain somehow remained just an annoying half a head taller, and even now, five years later, it hasn’t changed. The thing that’s tripping Felix up so much is that now Sylvain has really grown into himself, has filled out into his frame. Holds himself straighter than he used to back then. War always catches up to you, and it’s brought back a friend but also a stranger.

Time and time again, Felix reminds himself that it’s not like Sylvain has, fundamentally, changed. Sylvain still chats up girls in his free time. Felix still finds him in the dining hall with the girl of the day laughing at his side, but Sylvain still finds ways to surprise even now. Come down to the training grounds in twenty, Felix says, and Sylvain raises an eyebrow but agrees.

Sylvain still gets to the training grounds late. Felix ignores him to finish warming up.

“Why, how are you doing Sylvain?” Sylvain says in a painfully high pitched voice, and waves a hand around, like he’s tittering to a group of girls. And then much lower: “I’m doing very well, thank you so much for asking, Felix.”

Felix shoots him a dirty look.

“My voice is not that high.” 

“What, no hello?” Sylvain pouts, which shouldn’t work nearly as well as it does for a man of his size. “I think this lunch was the most you’ve spoken to me at one time, all week.”

“If you have time to gripe, you have time to warm up.”

“I know, I know, I’m on it. Jeez. Surprised your pops let you come down at all, just saying.” Sylvain grabs a wooden lance, testing it for balance. “These lances are kinda shit, but I guess we’re not asking for too much, huh?” 

Felix shrugs. Goes through the motion of another lunge. “Ask for forgiveness, not permission, right?” 

“Oh?” Sylvain’s eyes gleam. “Would you look at that! You’re learning.” He comes around like he means to sling an arm around Felix’s shoulder, and a death glare is enough to warn him off. Sylvain begins stretching. It’s kind of surreal looking at Sylvain actually warming up, because before, it’d always be chatter and idling.

And before, whereas Sylvain had been good with a lance even if he ditched practice as often as he could get away with, infuriating Felix to no end because couldn’t he see how good he’d be if he just put in the hours, it had always been textbook moves. Always a feint to start, and then testing jabs to go forward. Felix can recite it in his sleep. 

Now Sylvain fights like someone with years of experience under his belt. He moves like someone who’s seen combat; he’s lighter on his feet. Two wins for Felix, and draw, and by then they’re both panting, but Sylvain hasn’t given any indication he wants to stop yet. He favours his left side. Felix frowns. 

“Why are you favouring your left?” 

Sylvain disengages and steps back. He shrugs. “Lucky flail from a wyvern rider going down.” Sylvain grins. This is Sylvain’s grin for girls, for the week’s menu if it’s fish or meat, for Felix sniping something snide at him under his breath while Dimitri, still sane back then, would look on with an endearing sense of confusion. It takes Felix off guard, and Sylvain presses his advantage quickly - they’re deadlocked for a split second. 

And to Felix’s utter disgruntlement, he realizes that all the bulk isn’t just for nothing. He’s being forced to concede ground. Sylvain presses down even harder - there’s a trickle of sweat sliding past his collarbones. Felix’s stomach lurches. Oh shit, he’s too close. 

Sylvain gets a knee in Felix’s stomach and fuck, before he knows it, the sword is wrestled away. There’s the thump of the lance landing and rolling behind them. Felix goes down hard. The fucker’s got him pinned underneath.

It’s not the end of the world. Sylvain couldn’t hold a pin if his life depended on it - a well placed elbow and he’s yelping and backing off quicker than you can blink. But this time, he gets an arm across Felix's chest and throws his weight on top. A knee keeps Felix’s other arm nailed down to the ground - there’s no way to get out that way.

“Yield?”

Felix thrashes. “Fuck you.” If he could just free his one arm and throw a punch-- 

Sylvain holds tight. He’s heavy. He’s solid. He’s warm. “I’ve got you,” he says, his breath tickling the back of Felix’s neck. I’ve got you, he says, as in yield, but Felix’s traitor body shivers and heat pools in his groin in an intimately familiar way. Yield, and instead Felix’s body reads trust me and let me take care of you.

And it’s not like he’s never gotten hard during a fight, especially during a brawl, but usually it's the residual excitement past the boundaries of the fight. All it takes is a release in the privacy of his own room. But this time--with Sylvain pressed along his front, with Felix utterly unable to get himself out of this hold and being pressed into the ground like this in such a show of strength and skill--he swallows past the dryness in his throat. 

And the worst thing? He wants, oh, how he wants to be selfish--

“Since when the fuck could you brawl?” Felix lashes out, sharp, in the only way he knows. “Where the fuck did you learn, anyway?”

Gautier forces are cavalry mainly, some infantry. Nothing to suggest why Felix is lying with his side pressed into the dirt. 

“Here and there,” Sylvain says, way too light for how out of control Felix feels right now, with the flashes of hot and cold and have to get out, want to stay here. “These things catch up, I guess. The Empire’s on one front and the Sreng going after your ass on the other.” 

Felix bucks again. No luck, so Sylvain’s learned not to go lax with a pin even during a conversation. He taps out against Sylvain’s arm, waiting for Sylvain to roll off and waiting for Sylvain to rub this in his face because he can never resist holding a win over Felix. 

Sylvain shifts his leg down. He’s still draped on top of Felix, who could probably shrug Sylvain off at this point, if he cared to. He smells like sweat, like horses, and a hint of something spicy that Felix’s brain has been completely pavloved into associating with comfort. It’s truly a test of how much Felix _does_ care for him because no one is supposed to smell good or look good after two hours of sparring, but somehow Felix's brain has not gotten the memo that things associated with Sylvain don’t automatically mean hell yes. 

The world narrows down to the steady pressure of Sylvain’s thigh against his side. His fingers are still digging into Felix’s arm, and Felix feels it like a live brand. He’s hyper aware of how he can feel Sylvain catching his breath, chest rising and falling above his. Aware of how Sylvain’s face is only inches away, his hair is damp and curling more than usual, sticking to his face and somehow making him look even better. Sylvain’s bigger; no longer soft in the ways he used to be, having traded that part of childhood for duty, and now every inch is boxing him in.

Goddess. He wants Sylvain’s mouth on his. He wants Sylvain’s hands on his thigh during dinner. He wants Sylvain to press up against him like this in bed and take him apart. He wants mornings. He wants the impossible. 

Sylvain props himself up on an elbow and brushes the strand of hair that’d gotten into Felix’s mouth. Felix blinks. He thinks he’s going to be let up. Thinks Sylvain is going to go, and something in him rails at the thought, some part of him thinks, _don’t leave me._

“Sylvain, I,” he says, and is brought up short at the look in Sylvain’s eyes, dark and molten. Something familiar, but whether he’d dreamed it up or it happened, he’s not sure.

Five years ago, they’d gotten so piss drunk at a tavern outside the monastery that they’d almost gotten caught on the way back in. Felix is quite sure the professor did know, anyway. It’s not like they were subtle the next day. But in the dark of the tavern, Felix bristling with so many people bumping into him from behind, Sylvain had wrapped an arm around Felix’s waist and reeled him in close. Mouth catching on Felix’s ear as he spoke, had whispered that the tavern serving boy’s lips looked so good.

Then he’d turned to face Felix, and the look in his eyes had been the same as now, or Felix thought it looked the same as now. He’d looked at Felix’s lips then too. Or maybe, it’s all a drunk man’s fantasies. 

Sylvain swings a leg over Felix’s waist. There’s no way he can’t feel it now, and the thought sends a jolt of fear through Felix, cold water dumped all over.

“Get off,” Felix says anyway, face aflame. 

Sylvain stills for a brief second, and Felix wonders if this is where the line has been crossed, like where it should have been crossed for the past two weeks when Sylvain pressed against his side during mealtime and Felix didn’t move away, and Felix’s stomach would turn like he ate something bad. Or seeing Sylvain from across the cathedral, a trickle of sweat sliding down his nape in a sheer white tunic, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and picking up rubble like it weighed nothing, and Felix’s heart beating fast like he’d just stumbled head first into an unseen enemy in the mist. 

Then Sylvain presses down harder. Felix’s breath leaves him in something that sounds too close to a moan, the sound loud in the silence of the grounds.

It’s too honest.

He wonders if he looks as panicked as he feels. He hopes Sylvain can’t see it. Or hopes Sylvain can see it, one of them anyway, and whatever Sylvain does see, it makes him pause. Sylvain unhands him. It'd be so easy to laugh this off now. It's possible. And Felix considers it for a second, pushing away and pretending this sparring match was just a fluke, going on about Garreg Mach pretending he hadn’t been too scared to reach for Sylvain.

Behind him are headstones. A brother. A kingdom. Sylvain, catching Felix’s gaze and hurriedly looking away to the girl hanging off his arm.

Before him are more graves yet undug. An empress. Sylvain, taking over as Margrave. Sylvain, laughing as he lifts his daughter.

And above him, ever present, ever with him, is the warmth and weight of Sylvain breathing hard and looking at him with concern in his eyes, a hand on Felix’s cheek and thumb brushing the corners of Felix’s mouth. Sylvain shifts his weight back and starts rising to his feet. 

And maybe this is how it’s meant to end, but then Sylvain offers him a hand off the ground like he was eight and Felix was six, having tripped while chasing after him. Sylvain offered him a pat on the cheek and a hand to seal a promise in. Like he was nineteen and Felix was seventeen, eyes meeting across the courtyard, and now here they are at twenty-five and twenty-three, tripping headfirst into something strange. 

All for a war, for a goddess that’s forgotten them and a kingdom on its last breath. 

Sylvain is wide-eyed, holding Felix’s hand and squeezing like he doesn’t know what to do with it. He starts to let go. 

“Wait,” Felix says. Tightens his hold.

He steps forward to close the distance. 

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> a huge huge thank you to my friends for looking it over! this piece wouldn't be as close to coherent if it weren't for them hehe
> 
> written for [kinkmeme](https://3houseskinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/476.html?thread=603868)! i researched so many things for this that rly shouldn't matter but i've tried to make it!!! as realistic as possible!! e.g. how to pin someone down while fighting... when did we start in the calendar year post time skip... what exactly is sylvix age gap... sadly many things are still kinda handwavy to save my sanity but pls know that stapling someone's limbs (immobolizing a limb) when pinning is a good move to reduce mobility and predict how they can react to try to get out of a pin, calendar year post time skip starts in december hence winter, and sylvix age gap is apparently 2 years pre time skip but 3 years post according to wiki! however fe's born feb 1162 and syl's born june 1160??? so at no point should they be 3 years apart.. therefore i made fe 23 instead of 22 post timeskip! 
> 
> this is very pining and sexual tension heavy but i thought i'd take a prompt and like.. do my version so here we are!
> 
> thanks for reading!


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